


When the Heart Hurts Everything Suffers

by SomeoneAsGoodAsYou (the_wanlorn)



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lucifer Feels, Post-Season/Series 03, post-reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 03:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16421624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wanlorn/pseuds/SomeoneAsGoodAsYou
Summary: One would think getting knifed would fall under anyone's Top Ten Worst Days. For Lucifer, it's not even close.





	When the Heart Hurts Everything Suffers

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Anonymous on [Lucifer ](https://luciferprompts.tumblr.com/post/179121746988/lucifer-has-injured-his-devil-face-and-its-not)for this lovely prompt. It was fun to write and I hope that A) you see this, and B) you like it.

Lucifer's face wasn't healing.

* * *

He wasn't sure where the human had gotten the Hell-forged blade, and he certainly hadn't expected him to have the wherewithal to pull it just as Lucifer dropped his glamour. And yet, there he was, a deep gash running down the side of his face, far too close to his eye for comfort.

He'd handily disarmed the man, which was all it took to turn him into a a gibbering mess, and called in the Detective. Lucifer stepped out of the room, demon blade in his pocket, and hurried out of the precinct. His face _hurt_ , and not in a good way. He was rather put out that he hadn't thought to demand answers as to where the man had got the blade, but oh well. There was always later.

And there would be a later, something he was still marveling over. Although it couldn't be said that the Detective took the reveal of his devil face well, they were making progress. He was allowed to work with her again, to be by her side, and wasn't that all he'd ever desired? It didn't matter that it seemed as though they had been headed in a different direction right before Cain murdered Charlotte.

It didn't matter that he ached for that closeness, and it didn't matter that he missed her even when he was by her side. What mattered was that he _was_ by her side and that she allowed him there again. He would get over the rest with time, as long as he had that.

As soon as he was in his bathroom, he dropped his glamour and inspected the damage. The edges of the wound were ragged and certainly weren't going to heal nicely, but they would heal. What was one more scar amidst the horror that was his face? His glamour would always be perfect, and that was what people saw. That was what mattered. Not this... this abomination that had re-manifested.

The wound probably needed stitches, but he wasn't sure he could give them to himself. Usually he had Maze around, as much as she would complain she wasn't a doctor and didn't have time to be stitching him up. Not now that they both had new lives.

But Maze was gone, and Dad only knew if she'd be back. He was certain he had a first aid kit around somewhere. He eventually found it, behind the bar, and pulled out what butterfly bandages there were. They would have to do for the couple days it would take the wound to heal.

* * *

Except there it was, a week later, and he still had a gash down the side of his face that barely looked better than it had when he first got it. And it hurt, a constant ache that flared into sharp pain if he moved his face the wrong way. It wasn't anywhere near the pain of his Fall, but he'd got used to most things not hurting — at the very least, not hurting for long — in the last millennia. To say that the constant ache was aggravating would be putting it mildly.

He avoided the Detective while he waited for it to heal, knowing she would realize something was wrong if she saw him. He didn't expect her to show up at Lux like she might have before, not given that she could barely stand to be alone with him for work. He just needed to wait it out; his face would heal and he could go back to assisting her with cases. It would all be okay.

It was a foolish thing, to miss her presence -— to want to go into the precinct just to see her — when he was missing the past even when she was there. But he couldn't seem to stop. By day four of assuring her through text that he was fine and just had some Lux business to take care of, he was starting to get antsy. What if this was the time she needed to decide that even their broken friendship wasn't worth it? What if this was the break from his presence she needed to realize she'd been much happier before she allowed him back?

He stared in the mirror at the sink on day seven, inspecting the cut. It wasn't bleeding, but beyond that, it looked no different than it had a week ago. He tried a smile, to see if he could somehow fake being okay enough to go see the Detective, but it swiftly turned into a grimace. He had never regretted, before, that the only wounds that showed on his glamour were wounds made to it. If only Chloe could see that he was injured...

He heard the ding of his elevator — a sound he hadn't heard since he had secluded himself up in the penthouse to wait for his damned face to heal — and instinctively let his glamour fall over him again. His elevator had been locked. The only people who had the key were Maze and the Detective. He knew it wasn't the Detective, which left only Mazikeen, who was about to feel his wrath. She had been gone for _months_ , and she expected to be able to just waltz back in like she hadn't abandoned-

He strode around the corner, a growl already in his throat, to have both his body and his mind stop short as he saw Chloe. She looked gorgeous — she always looked gorgeous to him — even as he realized she was angry.

"Where have you _been_?" she snapped at him, her arms crossed and her face a visage of beauty in its anger. He would take anger, as long as it meant she still felt _something_ toward him. "I half expected to come here and find everything covered in white sheets."

"I've been texting," he protested and couldn't hide his wince. Talking, apparently, was out, too.

"Are you avoiding me?" she asked, point blank, in a way that he couldn't answer directly.

"I've been dealing with something. Nothing to worry yourself over," he added as concern flashed over her face. He tried a smile, and that was a bigger mistake than talking.

She studied him, and he tried not to shift uncomfortably under her gaze. He was used to being the center of attention, yes, reveled in it, even, but there was something in the way she looked at him that made him feel laid bare. It felt like she was seeing into the hidden parts of him, and he never knew if she liked what she saw. He found the idea that she did increasingly unlikely, especially now that the truth was out.

Especially now.

"What's wrong?" she asked, approaching him cautiously. He wanted to tell her that she had nothing to worry about, that he could never harm her, but he kept silent on that last part.

"Nothing that you need to worry about," he said and left it there. She flinched, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

"I know," she said, stopping before him. He wanted to reach out and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, but he didn't dare. "I know I haven't been the best friend since, you know."

"What?" he asked, because that wasn't true at all. She had given him more than he expected, more than he could ever deserve. How could she think that what she was giving him wasn't enough?

"But you can still come to me if there's... if there's a problem," she continued. "I wouldn't- I hope you know that. I want to help, if it's something I can help with."

She took another step toward him and reached out to touch his cheek like she had many times before. He couldn't stop himself from flinching when her fingers made contact, bright pain flaring, even though all he wanted was to feel her touch on him again. She had been keeping her distance so carefully that he was certain he never would, and he regretted not savoring every last caress from Before.

"Oh," she said, dropping her arm and stepping back, reddening. "I thought- Never mind. I'm sorry."

"No," he said, stepping forward quickly. She didn't flinch, and he wanted desperately to reach out to her, but couldn't bring himself to do it. "It's just... a minor injury," he finished.

"A minor injury," she parroted back to him, looking doubtful.

"I may have gotten in the way of that fellow's knife, when you stepped out, last week," he explained, half sheepish at having to admit that a human had gotten the drop on him in a police station of all places.

"He didn't have a knife," she said, frowning. She reached up and tucked the piece of loose hair behind her ear, and he almost regretted it.

"It was Hell-forged," he said, "something that shouldn't be in the hands of humans, so I took it from him." He waffled for a moment, wondering if he should tell her, before deciding that complete honesty was probably the best policy going forward. "It should have healed by now, but it hasn't." He winced again, the word causing a particularly strong burst of pain. "Bloody annoying, actually."

"Can I see?" she asked, the one question he was hoping she wouldn't ask. It felt like bringing up his devil face at all was dangerous, like he shouldn't remind her of what he was too often lest she come to her senses and leave.

He paused for a moment, wavering between explaining or just saying no, and ended on the former. "It's on my devil face."

She swallowed and nodded. "Okay. Can I see?"

He closed his eyes against her gaze. This had been what he was afraid of in the back of his mind, all this time. That she would come to him and ask to see again, only to realize what he truly was: a monster. But had he ever been able to deny her anything? Except, perhaps, the proof that he wasn't mad, and that had come out in the end anyway. He kept his eyes closed and let his devil face burn through, resigning himself to his fate.

Chloe gasped, and he expected to hear her footsteps moving away. It was like tearing off a plaster, except the plaster had been all that was keeping him together.

"Oh, Lucifer," she breathed, and his eyes flew open. Her hand was hovering over his cheek. "You can't just slap butterfly bandages on that and hope for the best. It needs stitches."

He laughed, only the tiniest bit bitter. "Oh yes, I'll just pop over to the A&E and hope not to drive anyone mad."

She was watching him with nothing but concern in her eyes. He thought that particular look was something he'd lost, and now knew to savor it, just in case. He let his glamour reassert itself and she immediately touched his other cheek, caressing it like it was something she'd been missing. He pushed the thought away, but leaned into her touch just the tiniest bit.

"I'm sorry," she said. He opened his mouth to tell her she didn't need to be, she never needed to be, but she continued. "I should have- Never mind. Stay here. I'll go see if Ella has anything at the precinct I can borrow to stitch that up."

"You really don't need to do that," he said, protesting but not moving to stop her as she turned away.

"You can't just walk around with half your face ripped open," she said, turning back to him. "You said it was supposed to be healed, and it's not, so are you sure it can't get infected?"

"Well, no," he said, finding he was loathe to let her leave, in case she didn't come back. It was ridiculous. "But I'm sure it's only a matter of time before it heals."

"Uh huh," she said, clearly not believing him, even though surely his face had to heal soon. There had been no magic on the blade, nothing that would stop him from healing; he had checked. So it was only a matter of waiting it out. "I'll be back."

He fervently hoped so.

* * *

She came back. Lucifer couldn't stop himself from being surprised, but he was starting to think that maybe he didn't need to be. Maybe... maybe she would keep coming back. Maybe he didn't always have to go to her in desperate hope that he wouldn't be turned away.

"This really isn't necessary," he protested as she pushed a full glass of whiskey in his hand and directed him to the bathroom.

"Yes it is, and it's going to hurt," she said, and then paused. "I could call Linda, ask her to do this instead. She has a medical degree..."

"No," he said, perhaps a bit too fast. He obediently sat on the edge of the bathtub when she led him over to it. "It's the weekend," he said, scrambling for an excuse. "We shouldn't bother her."

Chloe was watching him strangely, so he shut his mouth. He was struck by the realization that Dr. Linda and Chloe were friends, so she probably knew that he had never let that stop him before. He had the horrible feeling that she was about to insist and leave.

"Okay," she said instead, coming to stand between his legs. She was so close, he could feel the heat of her, and for a moment, he forgot that she _knew_ , that they weren't anywhere close to being like that anymore, and all he wanted was to kiss her.

Then she said, "Let me see," and he was brought back to the reality that she was about to be up close and personal with his devil face, much closer than she'd ever been before, and he didn't know how she'd react.

He let his glamour fade once again and shut his eyes so at least she wouldn't have to see them. He flinched when she touched his cheek, and she whispered a murmured apology but didn't let up the gentle pressure. The ache, though, quickly transformed to pain as she started to pierce his skin with the curved needle and press the ragged edges of the cut together.

He kept his eyes closed through the whole thing, pretending that it wasn't his devil face she was looking at, touching with fearless fingers. That it was just his face, and not the scarred, burned wreck that he truly was. It made it easier, somehow, made it so he could breathe without his chest constricting.

When she was done, he let his glamour fade back in and opened his eyes to find Chloe close, very close. They blinked at each other for a moment before she backed off.

"I should throw these out," she said, gathering up the detritus of open packages, and hurried out of the room.

It took him a moment to get up and follow her, to see her out. When he did, he found that she was at the bar, pouring herself a drink. His heart sped up as he realized she was planning on staying longer.

She drifted over to the couch, and he followed on eager feet, forcing himself to sit at the far end, away from her. The stitches pulled at his cheek uncomfortably, making him grimace, which only made them pull more. When he realized Chloe was watching him, he evened out his expression to something politely interested. They sat in a silence that steadily grew more and more uncomfortable, until she finally took a sip of her whiskey and spoke.

"I'm sorry," she said, for the second time that night.

He could only stare at her in bewilderment. What could she possibly have to be sorry about? She wasn't perfect, he knew that, but she had done absolutely nothing to him that wasn't well deserved. Before he could ask for clarification, she was continuing.

"I shouldn't have... I know that things after you killed P- Cain weren't that good between us." He tried not to flinch at her mention of Cain. He was still waiting for the fallout of that, for the consequences of breaking one of Dad's most important rules. "And I don't think I ever told you that the problem was never — has never been — you."

He couldn't help the small, sad smile that crossed his face. "So it's not me, it's you, Detective? Can't say I've ever been on this end of that one."

"No," she said immediately, sliding down to his end of the couch and grabbing his hands, holding them with an infinite tenderness that he surely didn't deserve. "I'm saying that you dropped a whole bunch of shit on my head, and I know it wasn't on purpose. I know you never would have shown me your other face if you'd had the choice. And that, I guess, is part of the problem."

He frowned, unsure where she was going with this. Of course he hadn't wanted to show her that part of him. She was the best part of his life; why would he want her anywhere near the worst parts of him? She seemed to see his confusion, because she squeezed his hands before continuing.

"I was hurt," she said, and he immediately opened his mouth to say... something. Something to make sure she knew that he had never intended that even though it seemed, as of late, everything he did hurt her in some way. Maybe it had been for the best that she drew away from him. In fact, it most likely had been for the best.

She squeezed his hands again, bringing him back to focus on the conversation, and said, "I thought," she started, but shook her head. "No, that doesn't matter. You didn't trust me and-"

"I trust you," he said immediately, rushing to assure her that of course he trusted her. How could he not? But trusting her had always come with the caveat that he could only trust her if she thought he was mad. That he could trust that when she found out the truth (because it was a "when" and he had always known that) she would do the sensible thing and use her firearm on him.

Dying from a gunshot wound would have almost been preferable to living in a world where she'd drawn away from him.

"No," she said, smiling sadly. "You didn't. And I understand why; I probably reacted just like you expected me to, didn't I." It wasn't a question, but he answered it anyway.

"Not at all, Detective," he said, smiling through the pull of the stitches. "I had expected you would shoot me at the very least. This is- What?" he asked as her eyes filled with tears. Bloody hell, that wasn't what he'd meant to do at all. She had handled it better than he expected! She deserved credit for that.

She pulled him into a tight hug that had him flailing a bit before he regained his balance enough to wrap his arms around her loosely. He didn't want her to feel trapped, but he couldn't pass up the opportunity to feel her against him, not when he might not get the chance again.

"I'm sorry," she said again, before letting him go so he could reluctantly sit back and wiping at her eyes. He was utterly baffled, and there must have been something in his expression because she added, "Lucifer, you shouldn't have to expect a... friend would shoot you. That's what I mean by not trusting me."

"It's the rational course of action," he argued. "You see a monster, you shoot it. That's how-"

" _You're not a monster_." The words were said so fiercely he leaned back, automatically trying to escape her wrath. "Don't you dare say that about yourself."

"But it's the truth," fell out of his mouth before he could stop it, bottle it up and put it somewhere safe. "How can you-"

"It's _not_ ," she said. Her eyes were glittering with tears again and he just... could not understand why she would care so much about something she was so wrong about.

"You don't understand," he finally said, forcing the words out. "I have done... I have done things that would have you running out of here if only you knew. And I-" He swallowed. "I've been selfish in keeping them from you."

"I don't care," she said swiftly, surely, like it was as much a fact as the sky being blue and the grass being green. "Lucifer, I don't care what you did, what you've done. I care about who you are now, and that person isn't a monster, no matter what you think."

"But-" he started, and she interrupted him with a swift, "No."

"You don't-" he said, and she said over him, "Nope."

"Detective!" he said in exasperation, only to be blessed with a watery smile from her.

"You're never going to convince me that you're a monster, so you can stop trying," she said. A pair of tears slipped down her cheeks and he couldn't stop himself from reaching forward and wiping them away with his thumbs, cupping her face in his hands like she was the most precious thing in his world. She was, after all.

"I don't know what to say," he finally said as he dropped his hands, when she didn't seem like she was going to go on. It wasn't true at all — he was still a monster, no matter what she said, deep down — but perhaps that wasn't as important as he thought it was. Perhaps it wasn't his secret, defining characteristic.

"That's okay," she said. "You don't have to say anything. I know you don't believe me." There was that sad smile again. "But that's okay. I'll keep reminding you until you do."

"I-" he said, and, with horror, found his own eyes slightly wet. He turned his face away before she could see, but he had the feeling that he wasn't fooling either of them.

"Lucifer," she said softly, her voice would have been a balm across his soul, had he had one. "Look at me."

It took him a moment to make sure his expression was under control, but he did turn to her, surprised to find her closer than she had been before. Their noses almost touched, she was so close. He could almost feel her smile, and felt the weight of the conversation lifting from his shoulders.

"Can you forgive me?" she asked, her breath warm against his face. If he understood correctly what was about to happen, if he was _right_ , then there was nothing he wouldn't forgive. They had become so broken, and most of it was his fault. He could acknowledge that, in the safety of his own head. And yet, here she was, asking for his forgiveness like it could ever be needed.

"You don't-" he started, but she leaned back a little — the last thing he wanted — and shook her head at him, hair falling over her shoulder in a way that made him want to run his fingers through it.

"It's a yes or no question," she said.

So he nodded. He said yes. How could he not? She was... she was everything to him. It scared him, how much she meant to him, and how far he would go for her. It scared him how empty he had felt when she had pulled away after she saw his true face, and how empty he still felt even when she was sitting right there, because he knew it wasn't something that could last. And yet...

And yet, she wasn't pulling away, wasn't moving away from him or giving any sign that she wanted to. She was, instead, leaning closer in incremental amounts as he watched, eyes wide. How could she- After everything he'd _done_ , how could she...

Her lips met his and it was like he was filled with his father's grace again, in an infinitely gentler and warmer fashion. It felt like he was coming home, for the first time in millennia. That he had found something he hadn't known he was missing. Her lips were soft, and warm, and he felt something bubbling up from inside him, an almost giddy happiness that this wasn't ruined for them. That they had finally made it, after all this time and all this hurt. That he hadn't-

And then she was pulling away, far too soon for his liking, but he let her go. When her eyes fluttered open, she smiled, and he smiled back, something soft and open that he wouldn't have thought himself capable of even a week before.

"I'm sorry," he finally said when the silence had stretched too far between them. Before she could protest, he added, "I should have trusted you and proven to you that I was truly the Devil long before you had to find out on your own. I- I'm sorry," he finally said again, something almost like shame filling in the cracks that the fizz of happiness in his chest was leaving behind as it faded.

"It's okay," she said, still smiling at him like he was something special to her. "I forgive you."

And when he reached out, when he touched her cheek and drew her back to him, she didn't resist. She came eagerly, pressing her lips against his and sliding closer until their bodies were pressed against each other as close as possible. Her hand touched his face, cupping his cheek, and the pull of stitches didn't come with pain like it had been only moments before. It was just the pull of captured flesh, not any more painful than the pull of his heart as her mouth opened to him.

He kissed her languidly, leisurely, taking the time to learn her and what she liked. When she broke away from him with a gasp, he let her go only with regret. But she was simply rearranging herself until she was straddling his lap, then kissing him again with much more heat than before. It had him wanting to take her to the heights of pleasure, as far as her body could go, if only she would allow it. Right there, if she would let him.

And, to his surprise and everlasting gratitude, she did.

* * *

They eventually made it to the bed. Chloe eventually dropped off to sleep, and he- He watched her, studied her face and committed every piece to memory in case this was something that she would wake up and regret. He memorized the curve of her lip and the furrow between her brow that eased even as he watched, the soft line of her eyebrows and the slope of her nose. He watched until he was sure he would be able to recall this moment right down to the smallest detail, and then quietly slid off the bed.

He went to the bath and let his glamour fall, looking in the mirror with something not quite surprise, but not quite not. Her hands had been all over him, all over his face, and not once had he felt the pain that came with someone pressing on a wound behind a glamour. Not once had he flinched away from her, or had to direct her attention elsewhere, or needed a moment to ease the sting of the slice down his face. So when he looked in the mirror, the only thing that surprised him was how stark the black line of stitches looked against his red flesh.

His wound was healed.

The End


End file.
